As Green As a Fresh-Pickled Toad
by MusingGaze
Summary: Lord Voldemort, the most feared Dark Lord of all time, helps Ginny Weasley write her Valentine's poem.


**DISCLAIMER: **I'm nowhere near brilliant enough to have made something as incredible as Harry Potter. All of the characters, places, and time line of the events can be owed to J.K Rowling. I can only admit to having altered the events of "Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets" to be seen from the hopefully humorous perspective of Lord Voldemort.

The basement could rightly be considered a dungeon. A cold, dim prison within which my vessel continued to gather dust. For years, I had laid in rest here. My vessel, a black book with fraying empty pages, was constantly sensing the key for escape yet was unable to reach it. Freedom kept in sight but out of reach.

Lucius had long forgotten me. Wandering about the halls above me with his family. I had gifted him this Horcrux in the hope that he would use it. The thrill of knowing that his soul would soon be mine had been delectable. But now, I had doomed this vessel to eternal damnation.

A black diary with the words "Tom Riddle" being the only indication of my purpose. But I was no mere diary. I was a fragment of the most feared dark lord of all; Lord Voldemort. For years, I resided in Malfoy Manor's basement. Then one day, I heard the stamping of footsteps and a declaration of, "As Aurors of the British Ministry of Magic, it is within our right to search your property!"

I knew that they would not find anything. Yet, within moments – and what I would recognize as days once I could accurately recognize the concept of time once more – someone entered the basement. They walked in swift strides until they stood right in front of me. They picked me up, and began walking once more, gathering other dark objects in the basement.

I sent out a burst of magic to capture their mind and convince them to open my pages. The only indication I had achieved anything was a slight glance at me. The one benefit gained was that I had a name to go along with the face now; Lucius Malfoy, one of my future self's followers.

Soon enough, the man – Lucius, I reminded myself - seemed satisfied with what he had collected. He turned around, and in 10 quick steps, I was let out of the basement for the first time in 10 years.

I would have jumped with joy, had I had a physical body. But that would have to wait.

* * *

We were in Diagon Alley now. Flourish and Blotts, specifically.

I couldn't recall a time when this bookstore had been this crowded. During Grindelwald's war, people would rarely visit the alley. If they did, they would usually scurry from store to store, with as much silence as they could manage. Even after that war had ended, the alley was still quiet, everyone still grieving.

Yet now, it seemed like there would never be a moment of silence. The people were loud, the weird contraptions all over the place were loud, and – Sweet Morgana, was that "Book of Monsters" actually attacking the customers?

And, by Morgana's name, did those children ever shut up? It seemed like they were all on some kind of sugar high. I could even sense a group of them fighting just slightly farther away, and the sheer amount of stupidity packed in those brains. Gah!

"Shut up, Malfoy!" the youngest girl defended fiercely.

The Malfoy in question – Lucius' only son, Draco – smirked. "Got yourself a girlfriend, have you, Potter?" He appeared to be addressing the odd one out of the group; a black-haired, green-eyed child with the strangest lightning bolt scar.

Potter – a pureblood, no doubt – glared at Malfoy and opened his mouth, probably to say something derogatory. However, before he could accomplish such a task, the oldest ginger cut in harshly, calling out Lucius' name.

And thus began Lucius' confrontation with some odd, ginger-haired tribe. By the state of their clothes, you could tell they were the most poor family in the store. Too many children to afford would be an apt phrase for them.

But, well, the more children they had, the more minds I had the chance to control.

Though I didn't truly appreciate getting punched when the Malfoy and Ginger heads got into a fight. I did enjoy recognizing the change of surroundings after I was placed in another's bag after the fight. I realised it was the bag of the only ginger female.

Once again, had I had a physical body, I would have smirked smugly. It would be fun to break this child. Ginny, was it?

* * *

This little brat was going to break me, I swear. It should've been easy to break such a young child's mind, but noooo!

It had taken her weeks to write in me. With my infinite talent and wisdom, I had dragged her into my mind magic's affects even deeper, using up all of my strength convincing her to trust me.

And, when I finally gained her trust, all she did was natter on about some stupid boy crush called Harry Potter. Apparently, the child with robes that had more holes than actual material at that point, was the reason my future self was temporarily vanquished.

Sweet Morgana, I couldn't wait to re-manifest myself just to stop hearing about perfect, brave Potter. I don't even care about killing him at this point, I just don't want to hear about how green his eyes were!

* * *

I jokingly suggested she say his eyes were as "green as a fresh pickled toad". I nearly screamed when she actually wrote it down.

Ginny Weasley, first year student at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, had asked for my help in writing a Valentine's poem.

I thought it would be easy. I'm talented in everything, so surely I could write a romantic poem. But I had thought to start off this trial with some humor.

That had been my first mistake.

I tried desperately to fix it, making it seem even more obvious that I was joking. "His hair's as dark as a blackboard", I said. She had to get that that was a joke, right?

WRONG. WRONG. WRONG.

"I don't think I quite like this poem," I wrote, "how about we try something else?".

But Ginny was too far gone, and she continued to write her poem. She waited until she was done to show it to me. "Change the last sentence, Ginny," I told her, attempting not to weep, "Change it from You-Know-Who to The Dark Lord".

"Why?", Ginny questioned, and I had to wonder why that was the only thing she did question. But then she seemed to shrug, and changed it. "I'll trust you on this, Tom."

I could feel Ginny close the cover of my book. I would have sighed, if I could. At least my enemy, Potter, would be humiliated by this poem.

* * *

"I don't think I can trust you anymore, Tom." Ginny wrote to me, three months later. I resisted the urge to smack the book cover on her hand.

* * *

The last thing I saw before Potter plunged the basilisk fang in my book was a flash of his eyes. My last thought – something I would forever deny – was that his eyes were truly as green as a fresh pickled toad.


End file.
